My childhood house used to have this immense tree in the backyard, so tall it was impossible to see the top. It was my favourite spot in the world. I would sit under it for hours, wondering what it would be like to climb all the way up and look down at the world. I imagined how it might feel to be so high that expectations couldn’t reach me.
I never climbed that tree. By the time I was old enough to try, I had chores and obligations. Climbing a tree wasn’t what a girl my age should be doing. It would mean dirty clothes and ruined shoes.
We weren’t poor, but we weren’t rich either. My parents had four children. I was the eldest, with two younger brothers and a sister. If any of us had a tear in our clothes, I would sit behind my sewing machine and fix it. I didn’t even have time to sit under my tree anymore, but I would look at it now and then from the window, remembering the feeling of wanting to see the world from its top.
My younger sister was nothing like me. She was the type of girl who wouldn’t go unnoticed. She laughed with her mouth wide open and refused to wear dresses and shoes. I spent most of my time fixing her clothes because she never learned how to sew, but was an expert at ripping them. She would run barefoot around the neighbourhood, bringing all the mess home—a mess I had to clean.
She learned to climb my tree before she could even read.
Every evening, I would help my mother with dinner. I washed the vegetables and set the table. I knew which cutlery went where and which spoon to use first. We worked in silence, only interrupted by my sister’s laughter. It was so loud you could hear it through the glass door. I didn’t need to look outside to know she was at the top of my tree, barefoot, her hair stuck to her face, sweating.
When dinner was ready, it was also my job to call my siblings. My younger sister would run inside, like a hurricane, barely washing her hands before heading straight to the piano. No matter how many times I told her she had to wash up and sit at the table, she insisted on playing a song first.
The entire family clapped when she finished playing, except for me and my mother, who only gave a nod. I waited, looking down at my shining shoes that almost reached the floor, hoping the meal wouldn’t get too cold. My mother would give me a small tap on my back and whisper, “Sit straight.”
I always obeyed.
It wasn’t a surprise when my younger sister received a scholarship to a prestigious music school. The offer was so special that the entire city celebrated in the main square. The school was in a different country, something unthinkable in those days. She was the first person from our town to ever travel by plane.
That same week, I secured an important position at a distinguished bank. It was in a different city, the nation’s capital. I was the first woman to hold that position. There was no parade in the streets.
Even though we lived in different worlds, our relationship improved. My younger sister sent letters and postcards, and every chance she had, she would visit. One day, she came over and announced, “I’ve met the man you’re going to marry.”
A friend of her friend. A journalist. Someone with a spirit that could match mine. Someone who our mother would never approve of.
“A journalist? What kind of future can a journalist provide?” my mother said on my wedding day.
My younger sister seemed to understand me. She visited when my children were born and celebrated with me when I received a promotion. She never told our mother that I made more money than my husband, something she would not have accepted lightly.
Once, I asked my sister why she never got married. She was pretty and successful, and even though she wasn’t exactly marriage material, I knew a list of men who would have gladly married her. When I asked her, she said, “It’s not for me.” Like it was that simple. We never talked about it again.
When my mother passed away, I drove with my two children and my husband back to my hometown. My sister came back from overseas with new melodies, stories, and gifts for my children. Her clothes were still wrinkled but modern, her shoes were bright red. She came with her roommate, also a pianist—a beautiful Swedish woman who, despite her thick accent, was trying to speak our language.
They sat at the piano together, playing songs I had never heard before, their hands moving in perfect unison. It was mesmerizing to watch.
The entire family listened as I prepared dinner. I glanced out the kitchen window at my old garden. The grass was overgrown, and the tree looked smaller somehow. It had lost some of its leaves. It was still grand, but if I climbed to the top now, I wouldn’t see the whole world, just as far as the neighbour’s garden.
When dinner was ready, I called everyone to the table. My younger sister wanted to play one last ballad, a beautiful song that brought tears to everyone’s eyes. I sat alone at the table, looking down at my feet that now reached the floor. My shoes were still polished and shiny. My children sat beside me, their feet dangling from the chair.
“Sit straight,” I whispered.
They both obeyed, but their smiles faded. Behind them, I saw the picture of my mother on top of the piano. It was as if she was staring at my sister, who was barefoot again, her new red shoes tossed on the floor. But this time, for the first time, I noticed something about my mother’s expression. She didn’t have the admiring eyes I remembered; her gaze was cold, disappointed.
The song ended, and my children looked at me before clapping, looking for permission. I tried smiling, but it didn’t work. They remained sitting, stoic. Everyone made their way to the dining table, enthralled by the stories from another country. Nobody noticed that I kept staring at my mother’s picture. That disappointed stare that haunted me for my entire life.
My younger sister caught me observing. She smiled and winked. Like many things my sister did, there was nothing else to be talked about.
I stood up and removed my shoes, placing them perfectly by the door to the garden. I nodded for my children to follow, closing the door behind us, muting the sound from the inside. We lay under my tree and talked about how it would be to climb to the top while dinner got cold inside.
I stayed there with my children until it was too late for a proper dinner. We sat alone at the table, eating leftovers and laughing so loud you could hear us from the entire neighbourhood. Our clothes wrinkled, and our feet were covered in dirt.
[Image Credit : Photo by Rob Mulally on Unsplash]
Denise Emerson, a Brazilian-born, Canadian fiction writer currently residing in the Netherlands, combines her passion for storytelling in fiction with her work as an animator and educator. Drawing from her diverse cultural background and experiences, she crafts compelling narratives while inspiring others through her creative endeavours.
